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Do not go gentle into that good
night,
Old
age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage,
rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is
right,
Because
their words had forked no lightning they
Do
not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how
bright
Their
frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage,
rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in
flight,
And
learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do
not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with
blinding sight
Blind
eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage,
rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad
height,
Curse,
bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do
not go gentle into that good night.
Rage,
rage against the dying of the light.
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